


i'm gonna wear designer and forget your name

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: A little crack, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Not taken seriously, fashion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23309281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: Le monde est témoinC'est la vie enFashion!~Lady Gaga
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	i'm gonna wear designer and forget your name

**Author's Note:**

> okay first of all who asked lando about fanfic on a stream? this is why we can't have nice open things lmao, unfortunately i'm gonna consider having all of my shit available to registered users only bc that makes me uncomfy, sorry yall.  
secondly this is the biggest joke i've ever written, it is so silly and lighthearted and i loved it. I've had enough of being sad and lonely in quaratine im just writing stupid crack-adjacent nonsense. enjoy this.  
summary is from "Fashion!" by Lady Gaga, title is from "donatella" by lady gaga.  
disclaimer: this aint RL, dont share it, and for the love of GOD please dont go mentioning this to any of the drivers

It starts out innocent enough.

Pierre's always been the more fashion conscious of the two, always been a bit more attached to eye catching designs and trends than Charles. Sure, the Monegasque likes his luxury fashion as much as any other world-class athlete, but he's not too keen on runway stuff.

Which is why he's so surprised when he meets Pierre at the airport in Milan and the Frenchman is wearing an incredibly gaudy silk shirt unbuttoned into a deep V that practically touches his abs. The shirt is patterned with brightly colored hearts, the bottom tucked loosely into his jeans, and the material slips and rest over Pierre's slender frame exceptionally well- Charles certainly doesn't think the outfit looks _bad_, per se, but he's more confused about the concept as a whole.

"Hi," Pierre greets softly, taking the handle of Charles's suitcase and tugging it behind himself, "I missed you."

"Missed you, too," Charles replies quickly, and then he catches himself staring at Pierre's shirt, and the shadows the creep tantalizingly into the unbuttoned hem. "What's this about, though?"

At first, Pierre looks a bit hurt, and Charles immediately wants to backtrack. The Frenchman's cheeks turn pink and his eyebrows furrow, as if to ask "_what do you mean what's this about?_", but something about him seems to settle, and instead he lets out a barking laugh.

"I wanted to look good when I came to get you," he laughs, and Charles can't deny that he looks great, "I forget that you are _completely_ uncultured when it comes to actual fashion."

It's Charles turn to be slightly miffed, and when he opens his mouth to protest, Pierre shushes him. Charles brain is only screaming two words when they're back in the car- he's got his hands fisted in that slippery silk when Pierre leans over the console to press a kiss to his lips- _game on_.

-

Charles feels like a fraud when he comes home with a shopping bag and an hour to prepare for his dinner date; the man at the store had recommended something simple and basic, like a button up shirt, but after the Monegasque had pulled up a hastily made Pinterest board with runway snaps and editorial shots of _real fashion_, as Pierre would proclaim, the salesman had dragged him into the dressing room with his arms full of what was decidedly not basic button ups.

After shrugging the long, tan coat over his shoulders, Charles takes a moment to observe himself in the full-body mirror hanging in the hallway of his flat. He personally thinks he looks like the lead of a spy film, the fitted black trousers and crisp quarter-zip top contrasting the beige of the coat dramatically, but when he'd stepped out of the fitting room, the salesman had clapped, _Say Yes to the Dress_ style.

He doesn't have time to lord over it anymore, because the front door creaks open and Pierre is there, slightly late and inviting himself in, like always.

"Hey!" he calls into the quiet apartment, "You ready to go? I'm starving!" Charles can hear Pierre's car keys jingling as he hangs them on the hook, and the quiet creak of leather as the Frenchman makes himself at home on the couch, sprawled over it haphazardly. He's enthralled in his phone when Charles steps into the living room, but the sound of his breath catching in his throat is audible.

"_Damn_," Pierre murmurs, standing up quickly and closing the distance between the two of them, his hands finding purchase in the lapels of Charles's immaculate coat, "I feel underdressed."

"You said I didn't know anything about dressing well," Charles smirks, cheekily shoving his hands into the back pockets of Pierre's pants and giving a teasing squeeze, "Had to prove you wrong."

Charles is a bit taken aback when Pierre laughs like it's the greatest joke he's ever heard, struggling to catch his breath between fits of chuckles.

"Oh my God," he sighs, "I love you so much, don't get me wrong, and you look great, but throwing a duster over an outfit you'd normally wear doesn't make it that much more fashionable."

Charles feigns hurt, taking a step back from Pierre, his face contorted into something neutral. Pierre's light eyes are soft, and he's smiling, but Charles thinks he must be scheming something, the attractive bastard.

"I'm hurt," he says, half jokingly, "And I don't really think a couple of good outfits and an address in Milan makes you a fashion authority, _Pierrot_."

Pierre rolls his eyes, closing the distance between them once more and leaning up to whisper against Charles's mouth, their lips just touching.

"I'll prove it to you, then," he says.

All Charles hears is a childish voice in the back of his head yelling a bet. 

_Challenge accepted._

_Again._

-

Fashion becomes far too loose a term in their household.

Charles snickers when Pierre shows up to his hotel room after a race in a pair of jeans with a star sewn into the ass (that Charles is _sure_ must've come from the women's section) and a crayon-toned, fringed colorblock bomber that he swears is _vintage and designer Charles, you have no idea how hard it was to find._

Charles half thinks it's bullshit, and half begrudges Pierre's ability to still look great, a small thought in the back of his brain nagging- maybe he _is_ a fashion authority after all.

But he counters with his own purchases- a leather moto jacket with a hand embroidered constellation map scattered over it that he got from Etsy, a pair of slightly bedazzled Moschino sneakers _alà_ Katy Perry, vintage and genuine distressed Levi's that he gets altered to perfectly fit his butt, even if he's nowhere near the definition of thick.

(Pierre catches him checking his own ass out in the full sized mirror of their flat in Monaco, and ends up laughing so hard that he's practically on the floor, wiping tears off his face. Charles doesn't talk to him for three days.)

Charles even gets invested in techwear, and spends an exorbitant amount of money on fancy materials that supposedly have built in, specially engineered utility, Goretex accesories, and a pair of Balenciagas burdened with at least a dozen buckles and straps that creep up his ankle, along with a hefty pricetag.

(Pierre personally finds the techwear to be ridiculous- his own style is softer, more eclectic, and he doesn't get the appeal of looking like a misplaced video game character. He shuts up about it when Charles calls him out for looking and dressing like Harry Styles.

Pierre can't even deny that one.)

Net-a-porter links and Depop screenshots become their newest love language, between rubbing in a great find or sending a suggestive piece with a text explaining just how good one or the other would look in it. Charles hopes nobody ever gets access to his phone's history, because it'd be pretty confounding to have to explain the many screenshots of hot-pants and short skirts and leather accoutrements he'd sent Pierre lately.

It is, quite frankly, getting ridiculous.

But somehow, Pierre's wardrobe becomes even more ridiculous. Pierre buys a bright yellow blazer (that he wears with a tacky, hibiscus printed Hawaiian shirt that Charles thinks he bought directly from an aging father of three in America, unbuttoned down his tan chest, of course) and a fucking _cape_ in the same shopping spree. He buys a set of platform sneakers that have him towering over Charles. A pair of patterned short-shorts paired with layered Givenchy here, fur-lined vintage Prada there. Pierre even buys a set of Miu Miu sunnies that are shaped like clouds.

-

They're getting ready to go out for their first formal, real dinner all year as a celebration for the season's end when Charles has to concede he's definitely and most certainly lost to Pierre.

He's not dressed poorly himself- a light blue sport coat over a plain white shirt, a nice pair of jeans- it's just nothing daring. Nothing to scream_ I know fashion_ or _I've been in a war over fashion statements with my boyfriend for eight months_ to the rest of the world. Completely, absolutely, positively regular- PR approved, even.

When Pierre steps out, however, he's pretty much the exact opposite.

It's initially a lot for Charles to take in. He's wearing what looks to be jeans so well fitted that he looks like he was poured into them. If Charles squints, he can see what looks to be shimmery threads reflecting in the normal denim weave. Blue suede chelsea boots finish off the bottom half of the outfit, but the top part is what gets Charles.

Pierre's got a delicately embroidered blazer hanging over his shoulder, silver and blue and gold threads and maybe a few Swarovski crystals gracing the black velvet and making out the familiar swirls of Van Gogh's starry night. Charles doesn't need to see the tag to know it's exuberantly expensive, and porbably custom made and tailored. A sheer mesh button up (contrastingly buttoned up to Pierre's collarbone, but not enough to touch his throat) graces the rest of the Frenchman's torso, tantalizingly offering sight of the shadows and hard lines of his muscular frame.

Pierre is smug, because of _course_ he knows he looks good- and, maybe Charles is hallucinating, but he could swear Pierre's wearing matching eyeshadow, and that Pierre's look could rival even the most beautiful of the Winter/Fall 2020 Catalog that Charles had been basing most of his latest Pinterest boards off of.

"Alright," he admits, "alright, holy shit, you win. You look amazing," Charles gushes, pressing his face into the warm crook of Pierre's neck and enjoying the vibrations of the Frenchman's laughter, "_What the fuck."_

"Told you," Pierre replies smugly, gasping when Charles nips a mark onto his throat, "We should," he pants breathlessly, "probably get going, so we don't miss our reservation."

But Charles fingers are already fumbling with the buttons of Pierre's shirt, deftly undoing them and tracing warm lines down the exposed skin of his chest.

"Not so fast," Charles smirks, "The reservation can wait. I think you should teach me about fashion."

"Oh yeah?" Pierre teases, pushing the lapels of Charles's sport coat back so he can tug it off.

"Oh yes, and what better way than to take these clothes off? Get a _better look_ at what makes a good outfit?"

Pierre's smile is blinding; he doesn't even fight when Charles's hand slips to his belt and makes quick work of undoing the buckle there.

"Sounds like a plan to me."

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know shit about men's fashion, spent some time on google, pinterest, and reddit before giving up and writing whatever.  
as always, feedback and kudos are appreciated, and thank you for reading :)


End file.
